She stares out
pulling at things to distract her,
the park walker.
But she is so immersed,
she cannot remember
if she needs her hero to be
or a murderer.
Because right now in her mind,
to die is to be saved.
The Chill of MeltingThe loving hands which shaped these feathers
bade me fight the fire and forsake the water,
find the space between.
Then those hands released me from our cage,
and from my mind all was gone.
The empty openness of the sky
was the same as that of my mind.
Curiosity flew to me on her silver wings
and, landing on my back,
bade me soar.
She flew into my throat and sat in my heart
warming her iced hands at the fire of my freedom.
She bade the flames burn brighter,
for her hair was tangled with frost,
her eyes had become crystals of ice,
and snow now flowed through her veins.
She sang to me a song of winter,
and in the spring sun
I sprung from the cold shadows.
Her breaths of mist filled my wings
and chilled my blistering skin.
Her icy tears streamed from my ember eyes.
She gathered the cinders in her icicle fingers
and cooled my burning fear.
But as she sang her song,
the fire bade me fall.
Curiosity’s laughter screamed in my ears.
As the ashes swirled like snow,
I floated past the soft
LabyrinthDarkness will, in this maze,
scream in the ears of wanderers.
Darkness will, in this labyrinth,
crawl into the hearts of men.
Darkness will, in this endless hall,
silence escaping words and drag the rain from eyes of children.
Darkness will, in this prison,
ColorlessFeel openness around you,
lending its strength to the worn wood
bending beneath you
and holding you up.
The trees clutch you close to their chests,
comforting your unseeing eyes.
In the quiet around you
blooms the silent flower,
your own breathing the only thing to sound
alongside the avian lullabies
singing the sun to cool slumber.
Swallow the birds’ calls,
keeping the chill of the night from your skin.
Hear the trees’ heartbeat,
beating a rhythm for your own.
Breathe in the silence
pooling about you.
Because when you’re alone
your empty eyes can see.
Red LeatherMy eyes kissed the tough wagon,
“I’m afraid I’ve surprised you” said the wheel,
as red leather rocks took the shock and flew.
They flew twice as high as the wall,
flew past the stars and grew into the moon,
as the clouds sang, loud proud and true.
The frog sat inside the mailbox,
as someone pushed a pile of post,
the wide face swung forward and bit.
Paper bruised and cut its poor throat,
so our little frog melted to soft mud
and snow fell on the hot tarmac.
Wavering heat feasts on bones,
bones disowned by the scrap dogs.
Children mutter proverbs in silence,
their eyes lamps of sugar and spice
and as the gasping earth drinks its tea,
lambs die and no one hears their cries.
Away From HomeChantel walked along the boring, grey hallway like she did everyday on the way to group therapy. Walking down those halls really reminded her how much she hated the color grey. The walls were grey, the ceiling was grey, the furniture was grey, the sky outside was often grey; the color grey seemed to be a pandemic and, the first point of infection was the building she now lived in. She was an inpatient at a sanitorium surrounded by bucolic fields, trees and, as Chantel had figured when she arrived, nothing else. Thinking about the surrounding countryside reminded her of how she had been dropped at Mountainview Sanitorium by her untenably furious parents just a week ago. However, it seemed like years since she was sitting in the leather back seat of the family Volkswagen, duffel bag at her feet. The door to group therapy and the face of her friend Claire woke her from her reverie.
“Dude, lets go! Doc is gonna kill us if we’re late again,” Claire smiled as she remembered
Bullied On Our Friendly Website DA
There was once a two authors on a website that wanted to let their opinion out.
But a famous author set to put them out.
She took the flame of these little author’s hearts making them burn from blue to red.
And here’s what she said,
“Your little fire shall be extinguished because I want you to get the Fuck Out!”
The tiny authors wept and cried.
Wondering was it because they picked a side.
Maybe if they had gone with the flow of everyone else
they wouldn't have suffered being a different self?
The small male author thought it was too much to handle and left.
But the dainty female author stayed behind. However
The light within her grew dimmer and dimmer.
And its glow became barely a shimmer.
Her originality became to be like everything else she owned: plastic.
She wasn't real anymore; just another author following the trends.
All hope was lost.
No one to come save her.
Sadness reigned within her,
making her shallow and pale as Frost.
Suckerpunch SweetheartRed lipstick war paint
I am a soldier in my own war;
A force split in two sides.
I am a force of nature
Bring about my own rapture
And I’ll bring you to your knees.
Little girl lost.
Cut off my hair
Cut into my skin
Pretty princess girl
Let me in
Let me in.
Sugar in my veins
And poison in my heart;
I can turn blood
Into a work of art.
I won’t go there again
Won’t do it
A sea of hands
In my head.
A universe inside.
Just what's inside.
V o i c e s
These whispers in my head,
trying to push me to the end.
All I want is to go home,
but then I remember,
I've always been alone.
i cradle my hope
with both hands,
as if holding it close
will give it the warmth
to stay alive.
when you come near
it flares and rustles,
begging to take flight;
yet i am both caress
we have confused our signals,
mixed our drinks and
closure looms ominous
but i would rather forget
than be caught in this
luminous void of
i am weak
you are blind,
perhaps we could be
if only we spoke.
you have unknowingly
in helical fundamentals
about my identity,
shaped me in
the embers of
i wish i knew
when to release
this frail hope.
we're both drunk
and you're shaking,
caught in a moment
neither here nor now.
bring you back to
the present, and i linger
but you are eager to eclipse
so you run.
i'm too afraid to ask,
but at least the question's
we're both cowards.
he/himsomeone came out to me recently, asked me to use
his correct pronouns when we’re alone,
but says whenever i’m over at his home,
‘please could you switch back to the wrong ones? i don’t
want my parents to know who i am.’ so every time i sit at their table
for mashed potatoes and peas, i listen to a father asking
his son how her day was and i hear him start to think that he’s alone
and i watch every wrong word they say strike like an axe into
the trunk of a young sapling who’s just
starting to grow into his own.
i know they don’t know better, but it’s hard not
to hate them when i am censoring every word i say
before it comes out of my mouth, changing secrets into
dinner time conversations, because a boy does not feel
safe enough in his own skin to come clean about something
as pure as the foundation he has been built upon.
later he tells me that he wishes he were strong enough
to just tell them, but he knows his father still
has the c
bound in retrospectpart i.
about wreckage and dreaming,
about nights wept weary,
and how city limits
compress to claim you
when you run.
away early mo(u)rning
and choosing dark over light;
how eventually i stopped
wishing upon stars
what’s the point.
there is no true way
for someone this self-conscious
to let loose streams of
but i'm trying.
you are an immersion
racing down my spine,
along vertebrae as if
they belong to you
but they shouldn’t,
you are long-limbed eyelashes,
a study in faux-reluctance.
you are a cage
i never could penetrate
although you never had much trouble
ignoring my reluctance;
penetration became a game
i never won.
this was never a love story,
but add enough adjective
and i guess it can be
whatever you want it to be.
warped to your ideal,
turn me to my better angle
and hide the flaws;
hide the fa
Demons Can Feel TooI'll admit that I'm a demon.
I'm cold and cruel,
Hateful and quick to anger.
I prefer darkness over light.
But demons can have feelings too.
I can be hurt, offended.
I can be sympathetic.
I can care for other people
And I can love.
I may be a cruel being.
Excessively so at times.
But that doesn't make me heartless.
Though I may seem so,
I do have a heart.
And I do use it.
Just not often.
Because the problem with having a heart
Is it can be broken.
And I don't want a broken heart.
I think maybe that's why demons seem so cruel and hateful.
They're just afraid of getting hurt.
Can I Get a Receipt?I gave the world
and all I got
is bloodied, mutilated wrists
and a death wish.